


Where You See Darkness, I See Stars

by AgateHearts



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Guardians of the Whills - Greg Rucka
Genre: After the fall of the Temple, Angst, Gen, Young Guardians of the Whills in training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 03:33:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17859458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgateHearts/pseuds/AgateHearts
Summary: It can be hard for Baze and Chirrut to see their own light in times of pain. That is when they speak to one another the truths that they see, wisdom gained from life shared, and remind each other of what they cannot feel.Baze and Chirrut remind the other of who they are.





	Where You See Darkness, I See Stars

_Young Temple Initiates_  
  
Chirrut is young, but he feels so old. Old and cold and cracked, like a ruined kyber crystal, like the crushed carapace of a sand beetle, all shine and light leached away.  
  
A ragged strip of cloth, ripped from one of his sashes, is tied around his head. It hides his eyes, his traitorous eyes, the part of himself that his body rejected, attacked, destroyed. He was the golden boy, the ever-victorious sparring partner, the champion of control in _zama-shiwo_ —but his own body has mastered him, left him in the dark. All he can feel is the cold, all he can see even when he presses the heels of his hands to his eye sockets is nothing, not even the sparks of red and white  and silver that used to bloom from the pressure.

He is alone in the dark.  
  
“Chirrut?”  
  
Baze pauses in the doorway. Chirrut is seated on the edge of his bed, knees drawn up and arms folded across his stomach, uncharacteristically silent. He’s been growing more quiet as his condition has progressed, and Baze feels worried, concerned for his friend whose joy has always flowed outward, that his sadness is now flowing inward, backing up like a blocked sewer to choke and poison him.  
  
There is still no response from Chirrut, so Baze comes into the room, approaching slowly and weighting each of his steps so Chirrut can hear him. Chirrut shuffles a little in place on the bed, head tilting up fractionally, and Baze swallows a sigh. After a moment’s hesitation he sits across from Chirrut, within arm’s length, folding his legs beneath himself and settling on the thin mattress. Chirrut doesn’t move, and Baze grasps for a topic, an opening, something to say to his friend to let him know Baze is here, Baze wants to listen. Baze will even do the talking if that’s what will help, though talking isn’t Baze’s strength.  
  
After a handful of heartbeats he starts with the obvious. Baze reaches out to lightly touch the cloth covering his friend’s eyes, saying with an edge of curiosity, “What’s this for?” Chirrut jerks away, almost slamming into the wall in trying to get away from the gentle touch, and Baze freezes in place, stricken.  
  
Chirrut swallows, his throat bobbing, then slowly untenses, slumping forward again. “I, I didn’t expect that. It’s fine.” He reaches up himself, yanking ungently at the cloth, tightening it. Baze wants to grasp his hand, to stop the violence Chirrut is turning against himself. “It’s just to hide these ugly eyes of mine.” His tone is forced, a mockery of lightness, the edge of cruelty in his tone underlining his underlying pain. “No one wants to look at blind, staring eyes. Creepy things. They’ll get wall-eyed and stare two different directions soon enough. Better to hide them—“  
  
Baze can’t stand it, so he says softly but with an edge of steel, “Stop.” Chirrut stops, moved to stillness by Baze’s tone. “Chirrut,” Baze says, and this time he does take his friend’s hand, holds it firmly in both of his. At the touch Chirrut doesn’t flinch away, but his face slowly crumples, and after a few seconds he raises his free hand to rest over the cloth covering his eyes, the fabric darkening with tears.  
  
“Baze,” he chokes out, hand gripping Baze’s tightly, tightly, pulling and squeezing as though he’s suddenly afraid that his grip on his friend, like his sight, will vanish. Baze squeezes back strongly, feeling the bones of his hand grinding together, the flesh paling around the tightness of the grip, but he doesn’t even shift. “Baze,” Chirrut sobs, then, “It’s all dark, Baze, it’s all dark, all I can see is black. There’s no use to my eyes, they’re worthless, I’m worthless too—“  
  
“No,” Baze interrupts. “No.” He draws Chirrut’s straining hand to his chest, leans forward and closes his own eyes, resting their foreheads together. Chirrut sobs again, and Baze takes one hand and rests it on the back of Chirrut’s neck, comforting him wordlessly even as Chirrut grips his wrist, hand trembling. Baze has never seen Chirrut vulnerable like this, and he leans in, offering all the support he can.  
  
Chirrut cries for a while, his pent-up grief finding an outlet. After some moments his sobs stop, and his death grip on Baze eases. He sniffles, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, and sighs. Baze leans in a moment longer, giving a small push against Chirrut’s forehead before leaning back to sit upright again. The air of the room feels shockingly cool against his forehead in comparison to the warmth of Chirrut’s skin. Baze misses the pressure even as he sighs, opening his eyes and looking again at his friend, seeming not quite so small, not wound quite so tight. Baze gently releases Chirrut’s hand, and Chirrut lets go reluctantly, bringing his hands to wring together in his lap.  
  
Baze considers his friend for a moment, then makes up his mind and speaks. “Chirrut. I’m going to touch.” Chirrut tilts his head up sharply for a heartbeat, then nods. He startles slightly at Baze’s first touch on his hair, then voices a wordless sound of protest as Baze starts untying the ragged strip around his head. Baze pauses until Chirrut tilts his head down again, says in a tiny voice, “All right.” Baze finishes untying it and whisks it away out of reach behind himself on the bed. Chirrut has pressed his eyes shut, face miserable, the skin underneath his lashes still damp from his tears. Baze gently uses his thumb to brush away the moisture, Chirrut sighing at the tender touch and relaxing again slightly.  
  
Baze can see Chirrut has been hating himself so hard, so unfairly, that a touch from a friend is like a benediction, like a gift of forgiveness for something that was never Chirrut’s choice, never Chirrut’s fault. Touches are important, to Chirrut, but so are words. Baze is trying. Baze will try. “Chirrut. Open your eyes.”  
  
Chirrut speaks, his voice small. “You’re making me?”  
  
Baze nods, then realizes his mistake and speaks. “I’m asking you. Chirrut.”  
  
Chirrut swallows, but after a second he opens his eyes. Baze stares at them, struck. They’re beautiful, a shining blue like the unclouded sky. They’re like kyber, like the light of pure crystals singing in the dark.  
  
Baze doesn’t realize he’s spoken aloud until Chirrut grunts, a strange noise for him, and says in an unsteady voice, “Don’t make fun of me, Baze. Don’t.”  
  
Baze sees his friend’s eyes filling with tears and quickly takes his hand again, lightly this time, his touch as sincere as his voice. “I’m not. I’m not, Chirrut. Your eyes, they’re. They really are beautiful.” He smiles, a tone of wonder creeping into his voice. “Chirrut. Where you see darkness, I see stars. Your eyes, shining— they shine like stars with cores of kyber.” He raises his hand, rests it over Chirrut’s heart. “But your eyes were never your strength, Chir. This, this is your strength. Your eyes are beautiful, but your heart is even more beautiful.”  
  
Baze doesn’t expect the hand that cuffs him on the side of the head, hard enough to startle, but not hard enough to hurt, not really. Taken off guard, he grunts, then complains, “Ow! What was that for?”  
  
Chirrut is suddenly laughing, tears in his eyes. “What, you can’t even dodge the blows of a blind man? You’ve gotten soft, Baze!”  
  
Baze grunts, raising his hand and making as to cuff Chirrut in return, but Chirrut dodges, rolling off the bed and standing in one smooth movement. “Come on, slowbones. It’s time to spar.” Baze glances at the cloth lying crumpled on the bed, and Chirrut makes an impatient noise in his throat. “Your pep talk worked, higher- _duan_ -mate. I’m motivated now. I can’t use these to fight you,” he gestures at his eyes, a small tremble working through his frame, but he continues, “but I can use this,” he claps a hand over his heart, “and these!” And he grips his wiry bicep, grinning at Baze’s sudden bray of laughter.  
  
“Come then, lower- _duan_ -mate,” Baze says, his heart lightening as he sees his friend standing tall again. Even if he gets low, Baze will be there to encourage him, to speak about the light he sees in his eyes. “Don’t expect me to go easy on you. I have a reputation to uphold.”  
  
Chirrut gasps dramatically. “So you’d hit a blind man?” He dodges Baze’s second mock-indignant attempt to cuff at him, laughing, then ducks out of the room. Baze follows, the two of them leaving the crumpled strip of cloth forgotten and unneeded on the bed.

❊    ❊    ❊

_After the Fall of the Temple of Kyber_  
  
Baze feels old, and it’s true he’s not as young as he once was. His body aches, but his heart aches more; pain has soaked in like the desert rain soaks into the ground, filling the shattered parts of him with grief.  
  
When Baze was young, his path was clear, even if the following of it was difficult. Baze once spoke out the words of the temple teachings, used his precise lightbow and mastered seventh level _zama-shiwo_ , controlled his body and his voice. Nowadays his voice is almost always silent, borne down by the weight of all the burdens piled on him, physical and temporal. Nowadays he uses a gun that spits wide-scattering lightning and flame, that burns through his opponents so he never has to touch them, never has to feel their defeat in his hands and arms.  
  
Still he feels their deaths like a dragging chain pulling him into a crevasse. They’re so heavy, they’re so bleak, his heart is cold and shadowed with the weight of them. It’s a weight he can never cut free, a weight he could never release because to release would be to forget, to consign them to worse than death, to oblivion. He does not regret fighting to live, but he regrets all the death darkening his soul. He has chosen this.

He is alone in the dark.  
  
“Baze?”  
  
Chirrut is coming home late; he’d stopped to visit the orphanage, to bring food and play and offer comfort and encouragement to them all. He’s stayed out later than he intended, and the cool of the room tells him it is dark inside as well as out. Chirrut doesn’t mind, but a spike of worry slides into his heart. It’s not like Baze to sit alone in the dark, to not have made tea, to not greet Chirrut when he comes in. Chirrut sets aside his staff and moves unerringly to Baze’s side, reaching out for his shoulder. His hand unexpectedly collides with something hard, and his fingers quickly trace its outlines. “You’re still in your armor?”  
  
Baze grunts, a non-answer. Chirrut doesn’t need a yes to confirm the obvious, but the lack of a snarky response only worries him more. He reaches over, feels Baze’s arm, then his other arm. He isn’t carrying a weapon. “Is there danger?” Chirrut extends his senses, reaches for the Force. His fleeting grip on its shifting pattern tells him what Baze’s silent headshake does: _No._ No danger from outside.  
  
Chirrut reaches over, grabs the other chair from beside the table, pulls it closer. He sits next to Baze, close enough for their knees to touch companionably, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from Baze. Chirrut is good at touch; Chirrut is not good at waiting. Right now, he thinks, Baze needs both. So he reaches out, hand resting on Baze’s chest plate, waiting. Baze doesn’t pull away, doesn’t resist, so Chirrut flips the release switch, catches the armor, eases it off Baze in one smooth movement. Chirrut quickly strips off the rest of the armor pieces, setting them aside where he won’t trip over them. They’re still within reach for Baze in case he wants them, in case he needs them to hold himself together. Baze feels fragile to Chirrut, as though he might shiver into fragments if Chirrut touches him the wrong way, and Chirrut frowns in the dark.  
  
After long empty moments Chirrut rises. “I will make tea,” he says brightly, then adds resignedly, “Chav, not Tarine.” Baze huffs a laugh at Chirrut’s tone, and Chirrut is gratified. His motions are smooth as he measures out the water and sets the kettle to heat, portions out the tea, sets it to steeping. When it’s just right he pours two precise, careful cups and carries them to the table, setting his there. He pushes Baze’s into Baze’s unresisting hand, and Baze takes it without further response. They are still in the dark, Chirrut realizes, but perhaps it is better that they are in the dark. Baze has not moved, has not resisted the dark or Chirrut’s doings. Chirrut takes a sip of his tea, hears Baze do the same. Baze’s cup clicks against the table as he sets it down.  
  
Chirrut is waiting. He can be good at waiting, though he doesn’t like to wait, but something about this worries him. This isn’t like Baze’s usual working silence, or his observing silence. This is a silence that feels like a scab blocking an infected wound, the pressure of sickness building up without relief, without help to clear out what’s beneath it. Chirrut takes a breath, reaches out. His fingertips find Baze’s face, trace his forehead, the line of his nose, his downturned mouth. “Baze,” Chirrut says, voice gentle as he leans closer, his other hand coming up so he is cupping Baze’s face. “Baze,” he says again, the name a question and an encouragement in one, and to his startlement Chirrut feels a sudden wetness flowing hot over his thumbs and down the backs of his hands.  
  
“So many, Chirrut,” Baze whispers. He swallows, then continues, voice hoarse. “So many. I’ve killed so many.” He raises a hand, rests it on his chest like he’s trying to press his heart back in, feel whether it’s still beating. “I can’t see past them, Chir. It’s all dark. It’s a shroud on my soul. And I’ll keep killing, I have to, and my heart will soon be completely gone. Chirrut,” he whispers.  
  
Chirrut breathes in deeply, then stands, his hands still holding Baze’s face. He steps forward and presses his lips to Baze’s forehead, his kiss a benediction, a pardon, a promise. Baze’s breath stops for a few heartbeats, and then the tears are redoubled as Baze chokes on his grief, weeps it out silently with the person he’s closest to in the galaxy. Chirrut hangs on, supporting, silent, acknowledging Baze’s hurt, Baze’s loss, Baze’s continuing sacrifice that he can be who he needs to be, protect who he needs to protect.  
  
Baze’s tears slow, and Chirrut feels him ease slightly, tired from the emotional release. Chirrut has been good at silence, but now words rise in him like clear water, spilling from his lips. “Baze.” His hands shift, moving from Baze’s face down to rest on his chest, over his heart, pressing warm and firm and calm. “I saw Killi and Kaya and the orphans today. They said to send you their love,” he says conversationally, seemingly not noticing the non-sequitur. “You love them.” Baze doesn’t even have to nod, Chirrut knows that it’s true. He feels Baze looking up at him quizzically. “Master La. Charint. Allidar. Disciple Kô.” Chirrut smiles. “Me?” Baze harrumphs suddenly, getting Chirrut’s message, and rests a hand on Chirrut’s wrist.  
  
Chirrut doesn’t move. “Baze. You have so much love in your heart. So many people love you, have loved you, will yet love you. And you love so deeply, so brightly.” Chirrut closes his eyes, even though they’re in the dark, even though he’s blind. “When I feel in the Force, what I see, Baze, is your heart gleaming, so bright, so clear. You have a heart of kyber like a shining star. The strongest stars have hearts of kyber.” Chirrut opens his eyes, his voice gentle. “You see darkness, I see stars. Here.” He presses once, firmly, over Baze’s heart, then takes Baze’s hand with one of his own, putting his other hand on Baze’s cheek. “Do not forget the light in your heart. It will not be overcome by darkness.”  
  
Chirrut feels Baze smile slowly in the darkness, feels Baze squeeze his hand. Neither of them speak again, but Baze gets up and turns on the light, then rolls up his sleeves and starts preparing dinner. As he does he starts singing under his breath; Chirrut recognizes one of the temple songs they learned as children, about the kyber crystals shining. Chirrut smiles and sits, listening to the shining of Baze’s heart through the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> "Where you see darkness,  
> I see stars."  
> —Laech Min-Glsain
> 
> From "Guardians of the Whills" by Greg Rucka
> 
> ❊ ❊ ❊
> 
> This wasn't meant to be shippy, but the two of them carry such easy intimacy, I thought I'd better tag it as a relationship. They're so important to one another.
> 
> A note on a headcanon mentioned in the story: I imagine that Chirrut lost his sight due to an autoimmune disorder where his own body destroyed his eyes.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
